


Three Minutes

by saveupyourhopes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 19:13:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18079286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveupyourhopes/pseuds/saveupyourhopes





	Three Minutes

“Sweetheart.”

You hear his voice and stir, drawing up to sit in the center of the bed, surrounded by rumpled blankets. It’s a vast bed, firm and clean-smelling; it smells of him, too, the soap he uses, the shampoo he uses, the cologne he’s too shy to use more than a couple times a month.

Special occasions.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you’re rested now, at least, pushing your hair out of your eyes and combing it down with your fingers. “Coming,” you answer, and slide out of bed. You hear heavy footfalls downstairs, the sound of his boots shuffling in the entryway as he bends to untie them. He never steps farther than the door with them on, not wanting to track dirt into the apartment.

He looks tense, you notice, taking the stairs with one hand on the railing. He always does when he comes off a mission—no sleep except what he got on the quinjet back to the compound; no food on his belly because he doesn’t exactly need to eat like a normal person anymore, but it still feels good to him to be full. Steve comes to your apartment for reprieve that he can’t find anywhere else. Sometimes he doesn’t even drop his things off at his quarters, like today, just hitches his shield onto his back and rides the Harley out of the garage, headed for your place, where everything is as familiar as home.

Steve props the shield against the sofa, pulls off his gloves finger by finger and pairs them to lay them over the arm of the couch. He sees you making your sleepy way down the stairs and smiles: soft, sweet.

“There you are,” he greets, gently. You make a sound, a humming sort of acknowledgment, and he slides his hands along your waist, pressing them against the lowest part of your back and pulling you against him. He bends his head down, strokes the end of your nose with the end of his nose, and kisses you sweetly enough to ache, a furrow between his brows.

“You smell like sweat,” you tell him, only pulling away long enough to say it, and you feel the softness of his mouth curling into a grin.

“Yeah, well, I did a lot of that,” he says.

“Go take a shower. I washed the pajamas you left last time. Are you hungry?”

“I could eat,” he says, reluctant to pull away from you, but doing so leisurely, anyway, with a kiss to the curve of your shoulder. His hands linger, and then he’s headed upstairs, knowing you’ll watch him as he goes, half-uniformed and exhausted.

You make lasagna, because it’s easy and because Steve loves it, and swears yours is the best he’s ever tasted, but won’t say why. When he comes downstairs to the kitchen, he finds you setting him a place at the table. You can smell his soap before he’s within sight, more when you feel him against your back by the stove, pressing kisses to the nape of your neck, his bearded jaw coarse against your skin.

You turn in his arms and kiss him. He’s half-hard in the flannel pajama pants you washed for him, and you feel it against your belly; he’s not shy about it, ever. Your fingers scratch through his hair, down to his neck, and he breaks the kiss to rest his temple against yours, leaning some of his weight onto you. 

“You gonna let the food burn?” he asks, knowing that you’d never, and you stick your fingers against his ribs, pinching. Steve curls away, grinning, reluctant to let you go, but sits himself obediently down at the place you’ve made for him at your table. 

You eat together in companionable silence, sharing glances. He keeps reaching under the table with his legs and taking your bare foot between his two sock-feet; shovels three helpings of food not very politely into his mouth, to your delight. When you’re both finished eating, you take out a bottle of his favorite beer that frosts up the minute it touches the air outside the refrigerator. He cracks the cap off between calluses on his palm and tosses it into the recycling, sipping at it while he watches you clear the table.

Steve pushes his chair back and stands, aiming to join you at the sink. You press a hand to his chest to try to turn him; his expression is a question mark. “I’ll do those later. Let’s go upstairs and get ready for bed.”

“It’s only seven,” he half-heartedly complains, a second remark dying in his throat with the slip of your hand around his cock, warm and still halfway there, waiting for the right encouragement. 

“Bed, huh,” he repeats, an eyebrow quirked. He finishes off his beer and underhands it past your shoulder into the recycling, pressing himself into your hands and cradling your face between both of his to kiss you, his tongue still sweet with the undertones of dusky fruit in the beer he’d polished off.

“Yeah. Come on, or the only thing we’ll be doing is going to sleep,” you tell him, lifting your chin in defiant challenge. He sweeps a callused thumb across the blushing apple of your cheek and kisses the bridge of your nose with a low, husky, “Yes, ma’am. Lead the way.”

You do lead the way, turning off the downstairs lights behind you and taking him up to your room; you try to hold his hand to lead him, but he lifts it to his mouth and kisses his ambling way up your arm, stops you at the top of the stairs with a hand on the back of your neck to pull your mouth against his. This time, when he kisses you, it’s hot, and wet. It’s aching with a week of injury and loss and not a single soft word. He bites at your mouth and you wonder, quickly, if the two of you will make it to the bedroom before you’re on your knees for him.

You do make it to the bedroom, but only just. He shuts the door behind himself and presses back against it, one hand rucking his shirt up over his belly and out of your way, the other shoving at his pants to get them down past his cock, hard, aching hard against his belly. You’re on your knees in half-seconds, desperate, your mouth soft and open already so that when he squeezes his hand around the base of his cock and guides it for your lips, all he has to do is press in, slide the head over your flooded tongue and tangle his fingers with your hair and push in as far as you’ll let him.

You take over from there, fingers curled into the waistband of his sleep pants, and you take him deep until he’s nudging the back of your throat; your eyes rimming with pink and burning with tears. He loves the doe eyes you give him, loves the way you take him like you’re starved for him; lets his head thud gently against the door, exposing his throat that undulates as he swallows; opens his mouth on a soft, incredibly relieved sigh and the soft, worshipful crooning, “Oh, baby. _Baby_.”

Your hands slide up over his belly and you can feel him shudder, bracing his legs a little wider, letting you take him. Underneath his white t-shirt, he twists his thumb over a nipple, clenches his jaw and forces his hand to go slack in your hair, trying not to pull. You make a sound around his cock, whimpering, almost pleading, and suck your way messily off him, wiping your mouth on the heel of your hand and standing up, bringing him with you to the bed.

He doesn’t need to be told to shed his clothes, pulling the t-shirt off over his head; managing, somehow, to step smoothly out of the pajama pants and slide up onto the bed without incident. He lets his knees fall open, stretching out his legs so that you can settle between them, taking him into your mouth again without hesitating, without losing a moment. His hips shift, angling as if in request, and it doesn’t take words for you to understand, soaking your finger in spit and easing it up into the snug heat of his body, curling it toward you as if beckoning.

It knocks a breath out of him, his brow pinching together like it hurts, but it doesn’t. He’s flushed all the way down his neck, digging his heels into the bed and warning you, “I’m gonna go off so quick if you keep doin' it like that,” but not fighting it, pressing his hips forward like he’s trying to get you to curl your finger deeper into him.

“I know you will,” you tell him, pressing deeper into his body and dragging the flat of your wet tongue up the underside of his cock, sucking down the head. 

“You’re so good,” he says, awed, brushing his hand through your hair. “That perfect mouth. That pretty, perfect mouth. Drives me crazy.”

You redouble your efforts when he talks to you like that and maybe he’s found that out about you, how you love it when he talks to you like you’re filthy and looks at you like you’re the sweetest thing. He slides his hand under your jaw to get your attention, get you to look up at him, so you do, and he smiles again, a breathless, halfway-there sort of smile that slips away when he lets his head fall back against pillows because your finger hits a sweet spot, keeps working against it.

“Sugar,” he pants, “sweetheart.” He tries to catch his breath, tries to breathe slow but there’s no real use when you’re doing things to him; snaking your free hand up his belly, up the center of his chest, feeling him. He tangles his fingers with yours, kisses your hand one fingertip at a time, stifling the softest moans against them. When his head falls back again, it’s on a gasping moan that sounds desperate, fingers squeezing yours, his hand in his own hair, now, grounding. He only frees a hand to grip the base of his cock and stroke his fist up through your spit, holding himself straight so you can swallow him down again after you’ve come up for air.

“ _Baby_ ,” he groans again, squeezing his eyes shut. You know he’s close; you’ve learned his tells, the way his belly tightens, the way he breathes out a quivering, even breath and sucks it back in through clenched teeth, the way he grits out a cuss that he never, ever uses, the way his heels dig into the bed, anchoring him.

He comes hard, with your finger pressed into his prostate and his cock practically down your throat. You swallow and swallow around a sticky warmth while above you Steve drapes his arm over his hot face, groaning into the crook of it, a fist tightening into your hair. He shakes, his legs tense, all of him taut as a bowstring until it’s over, until he’s finished, and he eases, trembling, into the bed, letting go of your hair. 

You take your hands off him and sit back on your heels, proudly wiping the corner of your mouth with your fingertips. He laughs though it’s weak and winded, a hand over his belly, his arm still thrown across his forehead. “Come here,” he tells you, beckons for you to slide up over him. You slide your panties across his cock and he scrapes the edges of his teeth over the fat of his bottom lip, his brow pinching in a half-second of tension.

“You’ve got three minutes,” he says, his voice a low rumbling, pulling you down against him and nuzzling his way to your ear to bite the lobe; you make a sound, at once quizzical and pleased. You press your hips down, feel him and how he’s already halfway to hard again and it doesn’t take much more than a few brain cells to figure out what he means. “Three minutes, sweetheart. Get those panties off and get back in my lap.”

And when Captain America gives you an order, you follow it.


End file.
